Grace.

I’ve gotten so close that I’ve imprinted a body groove on the right side of his bed, and he’s imprinted himself so firmly in my life that when I think of happiness, I think of his first. Not once has this been a burden to me. It has, instead, brought me the greatest peace I’ve ever known. I couldn’t have asked for a more understanding person to share my life with. I breathe a certain way and he knows what I need. I smile at him and he leans in and whispers, “I love you.” We probably say those words to each other dozens of times a day, and it still feels new. He is exactly the way I want him to be, even when he makes terrible jokes, or farts in the middle of the night, waking me up.

It is easier sometimes to get angry first, when he does something I wasn’t expecting and it interferes with my plans, for example. And just as I’m about to get angry, he looks at me, holds me close, and whispers, “I’m sorry.” Instantly, I know that he means it, and I’m no longer angry. In fact, I’m surprised at how fast my anger flares up, asking myself why I wasn’t inclined to forgive right away, why I was defensive first.

I’ve never seen him get really angry at me, and he won’t hang up the phone without knowing that things are fine again and that the conversation ended on a positive note. He speaks to me gently, soothingly, patiently, quietly. He’s never raised his voice at me, and when he has misspoken in the past, he’s thought about his words and set things right again.

What a gift he is. I see him as something so precious to me that I don’t want to change a single thing about him, not a hair on his head, not the way he wipes his nose with his sleeve, not the socks he has with holes in them, not his sharp toe nails, not even his snore when he’s congested.

I am thankful every day that this wonderful human being has come into my life and that I was trusting enough to open the door for him.

Hello kitties! I am watching Reno 911 with my roommates right now. Have you seen it? Pretty funny.

Had another chat with mom today about finding fulfillment in life. I have an answer for everything, but she’s definitely right. This lady at work said, “Don’t be wishin’ for the weekend, or you’ll wish your life away.” It’s true, but I do it anyway.

On Saturday, as I rode by on a bus, I saw a man on the sidewalk, bleeding from the head. He had a seizure and as my bus drove by, I saw him lying on his side, blood pooling in a very real way.

A week ago, my roommates and I were in the Mission and we a saw a buck naked man wandering in the middle of the street. He was on something, and he was obviously confused. Some people pulled him onto the sidewalk, and wrapped his nether regions in a sweatshirt. One of my roommates called the police.

In both cases, the cops got there in a matter of minutes, thankfully. But one more second could’ve meant the difference between life and death.

I talked to my friend Jewish Atheist last night for a while. I should’ve gone into conducting the census or something. Or maybe doing surveys. Do most girls have guy friends they can ask all kinds of intrusive questions to in order to make sure that our relationship is not, in fact, any different than the next couple’s? I’ve been doing that a lot lately, and I’ve been figuring out the following things:

1. I’m pretty naïve. Mostly by choice.
2. Men jerk off because it feels good. It has nothing to do with the woman they love. They do it not because they’re unhappy in the relationship, but because they are happy.
3. When a guy is depressed, he isn’t as interested in sex. So masturbating isn’t as interesting either.
4. When a guy is depressed, he’ll still masturbate. Who am I kidding.
5. Pornography is prevalent in male society. It’s easily accessible, it’s free, and it’s consequence free. (Except that your computer suddenly starts to run really slowly and the nether-regions get a bit dry if proper lubrication isn’t used. Oh, and getting off to porn is really easy, so when a real woman is involved, you’ll be more likely to get lazy about pleasing her. Maybe I’m wrong? And it hurts the girlfriend’s feelings if you’re enjoying yourself without her there because it makes her feel insecure and ask things like, “Are these big enough?”And she’ll start doing things like buying new clothes, getting her hair done, etc. to get the guy’s attention so he thinks she’s actually different women, and thus a variety of vaginas.)
6. I think on some level porn is about objectifying a woman, any woman, I don’t even care what her face looks like, just put a bag over her head and take pictures of her genitalia, that’s all I really need to get off. No legs? Even better. Less to get in the way.
7. There are some women that qualify for being objectified, and some women that don’t really, but what the hell, she has a vagina, so that’s good enough, I guess I’ll do her just this once.
8. Ok, #7 wasn’t fair. Men don’t actually think when they jack off. They just do it. Sort of like taking a piss, or scratching their butts.
9. There are some women that are too pure to jack off to, so men compartmentalize their more creative desires for certain types of women. (I believe that's a dance on the fine line of objectifying a woman and thinking violently of her. Thinking of some women that way means that some women deserve certain things, and simply don't feel things the same way as other women. Like pain, perhaps. i.e. "She wanted it. She asked for it.")
10. After men indulge in porn, they thank their lucky stars that they have a good girl to sleep with each night, to keep them company, and to share life’s lonely moments. He just doesn’t realize that his indulgence made her love him a little bit less. He chose someone else over her in that compartmentalizing way (it’s got nothing to do with you sweety, wack wack wack, I just wanted this [i.e. not you right now])—that’s insulting. What else is she supposed to feel?

***

People get mean when it’s raining. A few days ago I heard a woman fall down some concrete steps and I didn’t actually see her fall. I just heard the noise. A heavy body makes a lot of noise. She was heavy, and I have to say it was the worst sound I’ve heard since my best friend ran over a dog backing out of a driveway. It was really terrible. Very soon after this lady’s body hit the steps in a thud-thud-plunk way, a large crowd gathered at the top of the stairs, and I came along at just the right time as I rounded the corner to be one of the first on-lookers. Meanwhile, the traffic jam of wet, tired people started snorting for me to get out of the way. The fallen calf—poor thing—lost her shoes, dropped her box of things (the kind of box you carry when you get fired), and sat embarrassed and drenched on the floor.

It’s been the first sunny day in San Francisco in weeks. I forgot how much I hate rain. The first week, I made it through with tennis shoes, figuring it would stop raining soon so why invest in a good umbrella, a rain jacket, boots? By week two, I gave up anyway. Even with waterproof shoes, you still end up getting soaked from head to toe. Schubert and I went to a Russian Festival today on Sutter St. We had some classic food—borscht (hearty tomato/beef soup), pilmeni (meat-filled dumplings), galubtzi (stuffed cabage) and some Napoleon cake (with cherries and cream). We listened to an a cappella quartet sing classic Russian songs (most of which I hadn’t heard before).

Random list of stuff about me:

1. It's been one year since I met Schubert. And it's been a better year than I could have hoped for.
   
2. I have found a permanent apartment in San Francisco with 3 great roommates (so far, that is). My things will be here in a few days from D.C. I can't wait to put stuff away, have books on my bookshelf, have a kitchen full of cookware and have my closet organized. Oh, and a fluffy, clean, comfy bed will be nice too.
3. I'm learning a lot at work.
4. Can anyone else corroborate that making friends in San Francisco is a lot easier than in D.C.?
5. When you make a wish before you blow out your birthday candles, how long do you remember that wish? Does anyone ever write it down, and then check a few months/years later to see if it came true?
6. Is it really true that if you tell someone your wish then it won't come true?
7. What brings me joy is doing something nice for someone I love. I like that about myself--that I can do nice things and really not expect the same things back. Maybe a good hug is all I ask for.
8. I'm going to a Russian Festival in San Francisco tomorrow. Should be interesting.
   
9. I love flowers!
10. And soft things.
    

Writing makes me sad because I know that to do it I have to be alone. I’m subleasing an apartment in the Tenderloin in San Francisco for a few more weeks, and I already don’t want to be alone in this neighborhood. To think of writing means looking forward to coming home to an empty apartment and a mostly bare fridge, with that strange sour smell that I haven’t been able to get rid of, and that’s somehow managed to permeate the fresh items I’ve stored away in there. Everything smells like vinegar and parmesan cheese.

I think I’m at war with writing. I read something good and I say, “I could have written that.” And then I finish the line with “Well, why haven’t you?” I blame others for various feelings ranging from a diluted sense of purpose to a watercolor job to a bland pursuit of the frivolous to a runny sense of time and the amount of it that I have left. I also do a fair amount of comparing: “So and so is getting married and I want to talk about babies too.” So Schubert says, “Why are you comparing yourself to others?” And I say, “Because I want those things too. It doesn’t matter that others have them and I’ve become a cliché of a vague twenty-something. I’m still a person and I want those things too.” I just do.

I don’t write when I’m doing things I’m not proud of. If I write, it better be honest, so I don’t want to talk about things that hurt.

We’ve been having lots of talks, generally unpleasant ones. Issues of insecurity have been clouding our time together, but at least I’m being honest with him and at least he’s perceptive enough to understand me, which really is very hard to do.

A family friend sent me an article about a short story writing contest with the topic of “Are We There Yet?” The contestant can take that in any way they choose to, and they have to write four pages. I told Schubert about the contest and asked him, “What do you think I’ll write about?” Without hesitating, he said, “Marriage. If you and I are ready for it yet.” Note the lack of question mark at the end. I thought he’d never guess, because if even if he did guess, he’d never actually say it. It’s a topic that’s like swarming ants under a carpet. No, not under a rug, a carpet. The thought gives you a sick, churning feeling that sort of creeps you out and sort of makes you want to leave the room or run away and hide. And then blame someone. Who put that carpet on an ant hill? And who brought those ants into the house in the first place? See, now you’re changing the subject. Always changing the subject. Admit it, you just don’t want to talk about marriage.

I’m not sure, but I’m guessing that children of alcoholics might feel like vomiting if they smell liquor. I don’t know. Sometimes, I feel like vomiting when I have to say the word marriage. And I suppress nervous laughter when someone says the pretentious word “fiancé.”

Wife? That’s one word that feels as sturdy as a chimney. It’s a proud word that I could lean on, cling to it like my mother’s skirt. It’s the one word that means there’s hope for me. It has more to do with the woman than her counterpart—without whom she wouldn’t be a wife at all. But still, I feel like she could go on being a wife even when he no longer was her husband. If he dies, she becomes a widow, but I’d just go on thinking of her as a wife, because that comes from within. That’s what gives the marriage solidity and sturdiness, warmth and compassion.

I wiped the smile off my face when he guessed what my short story would be about, and I knew at that moment that I’d never send it in, and I might not even write it. He guessed, and he went on looking at the menu.

If he had said, “You’ll write about politics, the 2008 campaign.” I could’ve pretended that that was it, and said, “You got it!” I then I could’ve kept my secret to myself, the one thing I always think about and the thing that scares me the most. How it makes me completely disoriented, wondering, what now? I think about it so much and I know so little about it. I think I want it and it terrifies me. Mass made lifestyles don’t ever fit me. I try them on and I conclude, “This just isn’t for me.” Wedding planning books make me dizzy and white dresses make me want to spill something on them.

He ordered an omelet, and I ordered a salad. It’s a diner we’d never gone to and we sat across from each other in a booth. I switched seats to sit by him, and that’s when I brought up the writing contest.

The deadline came and went, and I didn’t submit anything. He never asked me about it. I don’t blame him. I blame myself.

I think I want to be married, so I can have a yellow house with white trim and hardwood floors. A big parlor with a cherry wood piano for him. These things mean companionship to me because there’s a default person somewhere in the house. This abstract home calms me, but the real thought of a key being pulled out of my purse, inserting it in the lock, opening the door, and being disappointed by the person I see… that makes me feel hopeless. And so vulnerable. What if ten years go by and then I feel that way?

“I didn’t know how good things could be,” he said, as we sat on my couch after spending an afternoon at Golden Gate Park. We’d had another big discussion, during which I admitted amidst embarrassing tears, “But I don’t want to get married that late.” And he said things like, “There’s so much time left,” and I thought of how long my grandma lived and how long she was sick for. But both of his grandmas are still alive and well, and he’s such a warm soul. He just doesn’t know the way I know things.

He’s an animal, just like me, but we’re driven by different biology. We’re different and equal, and sometimes he’s just flat out better than me, like when he says just the right thing at the right time, and knows exactly how to touch me. But I’m too proud to say, “Thank you. That was exactly what I needed.”

“If we lived together, this is how big I’d want the apartment to be,” he said. Instantly, I was standing in the redecorated room, the empty shelf suddenly had his music books on them, and I felt like we were exactly where we were supposed to be. And I didn’t say thank you for that momentary feeling of calm, like I was the last piece of a puzzle and someone picked me off of the floor and put me in my place, all snug, and full of purpose.

I remembered her tonight as I drank organic blueberry-pomegranate juice. I thought that grandma should have some, and that mom should bring her some next time in a Tupperware sippy cup. Maybe mom will find a straw in the kitchen. Grandma doesn’t eat much anymore, nothing solid. Most things come back up again anyway. So if mom brings her this juice, she’ll really like it. And blueberries are good for you.

I’m not anywhere near her nursing home, and I’m not anywhere near my mom. And my grandma isn’t around anymore, not even at the nursing home, but I swore for a split second as I tasted the gritty blueberry seedlings, feeling them between my teeth, that she was still in that permanent and helpless state. How I got used to that. The decline and perpetual drowning. Completely submerged at the bottom of the pool, the weight just won’t let up to at least free the body to float to the surface. How permanent a slow decline can be, how indefinitely hopeless, permanently not alive and not dead.

I hate that when I think of her I don’t remember the good times. I just remember in flinching seconds that she was never going to get better, that she was so heavy on my mother’s ankles as they sank together. Robbery. Senility robs what I have a right to, a grandmother or at least the memory of one. Her illness stole my memories.

I remembered her tonight as the tangy juice slid down my throat, how I watched my mother’s anger flare up at her because she’d spit back the food, let it drip from her chin down her shirt onto her hands. She’d swat at my mother’s hand as she tried to dry the kasha from her face, swat, slap slap slap. How angry my mother got.

Anger. It sounds like a foreign country, or maybe Angieres. Seething Salem. Panicking Palermo. Defeated Djibouti. Ignore me, I’m just playing with my mom’s emotions or how she must have felt at times. I spent one evening with my grandma, trying to coax her to eat something and I started to feel the weeeeiiiiiiigggggggggggghhhhhht of her age and illness and she looked like Smeagol and I loved her and was angry at her at the same time.

How shame takes hold of us and bares us for all to see. I am ashamed that I just said that my grandma looked like Smeagol, but when the movie first came out, I couldn’t stop thinking of the similarity. How comforting to see that she was well, crawling around on all fours calling something precious, having a desire for something [delectably disturbing].

Goddamned anger. How do you communicate with someone who’s gone? She was gone twelve years before she really left, and when she passed I was relieved. There’s no sense to that. She’d sometimes say in Russian, “I don’t want to live.” Ten days before she died we took her downstairs to the room with parakeets in it, wrapped her in her blue blanket, and placed her by the couch. My brother read, I did too. I don’t know what mom did, but it was grandma’s last birthday.

When she was laid out on her bed, she was straight for the first time in years. I always saw her scrunched up, hunched over even when she was lying down. Bony elbows and shoulders jutting out at neomodern angles (architects would be proud).

I didn’t want to talk about this.

My blueberry-pomegranate juice evoked a memory, and I just wanted to make her well again, the same way my mom tried to feed her blintzes by mushing them up first. Or when mom packed fresh blackberries and grandma ate them one after the other grinding the seeds between her yellow teeth. I worried she’d get diarrhea and mom was glad she was eating something.

According to a self-help pamphlet I found at a church, I learned that forgiveness consists of four steps. The first is to acknowledge the hurt. The second is to own the feelings of hatred, blame and anger. The third is to accept the need for healing, and let go of the need to get revenge. The fourth is to wish the other person well and offer a chance for a restored relationship. A notable quote is the following:

“Forgiveness is not quantifiable, and it is not contingent upon the repentance or remorse of the offender. Sometimes those who hurt us later realize what they have done and express regret, but often they do not. Our forgiveness of others cannot await this uncertain outcome and actually has nothing to do with it. If we wait for others to be sorry that they have injured us, we may wait forever. The forgiving spirit is a quality within the forgiver, and is not dependent on the moral caliber of the offender. Our spiritual growth must proceed regardless of what others do. The three “Cs” of recovery programs remind us that we did not cause others to be like they are; we cannot control them; and we won’t be able to cure them.”

What or whom have you had to forgive? Please share stories with me in the comments.

I live in San Francisco now. Today is day 10 since I arrived and I feel like this is home. I’m staying with my boyfriend, Schubert, until I find a place to live with my lovely roommate, Laura. Schubert lives in a house in the mission and has 5 roommates, who are all musicians.

This is what Schubert and Laura look like:

I’m spending my time doing domestic things. When I’m happy, I start cleaning and cooking, laundering and grocery shopping. Since I arrived, I’ve scrubbed the boys’ bathtub, made the house’s fridge sparkling clean, done about 10 loads of laundry, folded laundry that didn’t belong to me (have received about a dozen thank yous from people), cooked a few meals, made some great dessert to share, swept floors, scrubbed countertops, and organized my boyfriend’s closet (mainly to make room for my things in it).

He’s been a sweetheart about all of this stuff. Instead of saying, “Stop meddling and leave my stuff alone!” he’s said thank you to me for every little thing I’ve done, including getting rid of the squeaky hinges on his bedroom door (the trick: take a Q-tip and dip it in olive oil, dab on to the hinges for a quick fix). I’ve replaced a burnt-out light bulb and bought him an adorable Wonder Bread sandwich box—he said thank you and thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve found a lovely balance here.

All women really want is acknowledgement. When she does something nice, like remove the goo off the soap dish, all she wants is a quick, “Hey! That goo is gone. Thanks!” Not saying anything is not a good idea, but it’s certainly better than saying something like, “What did you do that for? What a waste of time!” The last response will explain why you don’t get laid that night.

I folded Schubert’s still warm, freshly laundered bath towel and I brought it up to his face while he was working busily on his composition. “Isn’t this nice?” I asked. He smiled and said, “It’s all in the details.” And that is how, ladies and gentlemen, he made me feel appreciated.

***

I’m not working right now, so I’m trying not to spend money where I don’t have to. My job starts on October 29^th, and I considered calling them up and saying, “I’d like to start earlier, please.” But then someone said to me, “Are you nuts?” And I had to seriously consider that possibility—Who in their right mind would give up two weeks of vacation time, especially having just arrived in a new city, where beautiful coffee shops and used book stores cry out for attention? I planned on spending this time looking for apartments, but certain technical difficulties have kept Laura and me from signing a lease. We’ll regroup in a few weeks and go from there. In the meantime, I take meandering walks around the neighborhoods and window shop. I sleep in late, cook meals at home, visit with Schubert during his breaks, and read a ton. There are no TVs in the house, so I watch movies on Netflix and read books instead.

Currently, I’m working through Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt and A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah. Very different books—the first is a memoir about an Irish family and their survival from the perspective of a little boy, the second is a memoir written by a man from Sierra Leone about his childhood surviving as a child soldier. I'm reading the first one because it won the Pulitzer Prize and the second one for a book club that's meeting soon.

***

Things are great right now. How are you all?

I don’t know whose idea it was, but it sent several Russian immigrants running. My father came home last Friday evening from work, and he seemed glum, distracted even, as he watched his customary evening news on CNN. Mom leaned over to me and said, “His office is having him read a few lines for a skit.”

A skit? Oh, right. He does work for a big insurance company; corporate America at its best. His office will have five teams of about 10 people putting on a creative commercial in front of about 100 people at their biannual meeting. I don’t know if any prizes are involved, but I do know that a great deal of preparation is being made by my father and his neighbor, both Russian men, programmers in their late fifties, both with tremendous Russian accents. There are two other Russian programmers in his group of 10, and I’m willing to bet that they all had similar, pained expressions on their faces as they sat down to eat dinner that night.

Cultural discoveries have been made before my very eyes over the last week. “No,” I said to dad, “It’s not Mr. Hovel, it’s Mr. Howell. Pronounce the owell like the word owl, not like the word shovel.” Dad tried it a few times and finally got it. Sort of. “Dad,” I told him, “It’s Gilligan’s Island, not Gilligan Island. It’s a possessive apostrophe s.” Then, he sat on the floor in front of the new big screen TV watching an old episode of the show, singing along with the theme song, practicing it several times before he got the hang of it. Mom told him, “Just don’t sing loud and you’ll be fine.” Dad laughed at the show as Maryanne tried to seduce a native who resisted her by mumbling in an “ethnic” language: “You’re not the type of girl I can bring home to mother.”

Yesterday, as on most evenings, I carpooled home with my dad’s lifelong Russian friends turned neighbors turned coworkers. I listened as the woman corrected her husband’s pronunciation. “No, it’s not strugety it’s strutegy.” This went on for a few minutes, and I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. I threw myself into the fray and said, “it’s just like the beginning of the word stratosphere. Make that ‘a’ nasal sounding, and don’t mix up the ‘g’ and ‘t’. They had me say the word stratosphere five times, followed by the word strategy as it was intended to sound, with the g and t in the right places.

Four out of ten of the troubadouric thespians are Russian, I thought. Did the American who wrote the skit know that my dad has trouble with the word whirl? Did he even realize that my dad would be preparing for his five lines with the kind of fervor that he had when he was studying to be a physicist, the kind of diligence he tried to instill in me when it came to my own algebra and history classes?

My dad’s friend sat in the backseat and said to his daughter on his cell phone, “Listen to me and tell me if you can understand me…” and he recited his few lines, enunciating each syllable, massaging the sides of his tongue against his teeth as he emphasized the American, flat r, chiseling away the rrrolling exotic Russian r to the topography of Wyoming.

As we neared the end of our 50 minute car ride, dad surprised me by reciting his lines perfectly by memory. Each word rounded out like an apple pie’s edges, each intonation of a phrase ebbed and flowed like an American flag, and I could see the smile on his face when he finished and saw me staring at him. Almost a week later, he had finally conquered his demon, and I was reminded again of how each victory over the English language is really a victory for my entire family. These battles are being fought and won, but the word immigrant will never be fully conquered.

"I was acting like another woman, yet I was more myself than ever before."

~Francesca Johnson in The Bridges of Madison County  

I quit my job today and accepted a new one in San Francisco. It’s the end of an era for me in D.C., as Kirsten noted, and I have to say that I’m happy to close this chapter of my life. I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an advice book for young women who’d found themselves in similar situations as me—moving to a new city with a guy, living with him, getting ditched, feeling lost, slowly recovering, learning how to make friends, growing sturdy survival legs, and moving on.

It’s sort of trite, but maybe it could make good material for some short stories.

List of Advice:

1. Unless you’re okay with endless dating, don’t live with the boy. Get your own place.
2. Don’t devote your time to his every need. Examples: Don’t sacrifice happy hours with your coworkers to go to his work events.
3. Don’t get involved in his family drama. As a follow-up, pay close attention to the relationships within his family. If they don’t sit well with you, take that as a predictor of your future together.
4. Reserve chunks of your life for yourself, like drawing a line in the sand which he can’t cross over. The hard part? Really meaning it. If you pick up painting, don’t paint and think, “I wish I was with him on the couch in front of the T.V.”
5. Don’t share finances, for the love of God. And don’t give out social security numbers.
6. When you feel you’re not being respected, believe that feeling.
7. Love is not hard. You shouldn’t have to force yourself to feel good, and you shouldn’t have to force yourself to like someone you should like naturally.
8. Sex is a huge indicator of how your relationship is fairing. If he’s lazy in bed, he’s lazy out of the bedroom. If he puts your pleasure second, he’ll put you second in other areas of your life together.
9. If you feel lonely while sitting with him with no distractions, something’s not right.
10. Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched—planning is great, don’t get me wrong, but planning the paint color on the walls of the house you haven’t bought together is bad news.
11. Keep your families apart until you’re engaged. There’s no reason for parents to become friends if you don’t even know how the relationship will turn out.
12. Don’t let your boyfriend’s mom treat you like a daughter. You don’t need another mom—you’ve got one already, like her or not.
13. Don’t let your boyfriend’s mom treat you like a daughter-in-law, since you’re not married to her son yet. Examples: shopping with her, and allowing her to question your style in clothing.
14. Make friends, the real kind. Call them, make plans, and follow through. Genuinely care. If you can’t genuinely care, take some time to figure out what’s wrong. Maybe all of your attention is being focused on one person?
15. Plan your life as if you were going to have to do it all alone. While this isn’t the best case scenario, it’s a contingency plan. Anything above that is gravy. As I’ve heard in a movie: “We come into this world alone and we die alone.”
16. Ladies, take your careers seriously. Divorce rate aside, desire to bare children aside, your job does matter. It affects your self esteem and from what I know of men, they love a strong woman. If the guy doesn’t appreciate that in you, re-evaluate why that may be. Does he feel threatened by you? Does he trust you without feeling like he has to bribe you to stay? Does he insist on earning more than you? Is he more competitive with you than encouraging regarding salaries?
17. Negotiate the job offers you get. A disproportionate number of men negotiate compared with women. Don’t be afraid of seeming like a bitch—this is your time you’re being compensated for. It’s your future, and if you’re planning like you’ll be doing it alone, salary starts to matter more.
18. No body owes you anything. If you were privileged growing up, don’t think that’s how things are supposed to be. If you want something, go out there and get it. Don’t expect people to hand you anything.
19. Stop leaching off your parents. It’s one thing if you need a place to stay when something goes wrong, or if you’re between leases, but don’t depend on them to bail you out. Remember: live life like you’re doing it alone. It builds strong legs to stand on.
20. If your goal is to get married, raise a family, and move forward in developing your relationship with your significant other, share that from the outset of a relationship. Once it’s out there, stick to your guns and be ready to leave if your instinct tells you it’s not going to happen. This is why #15 is important. You’ll be more likely to survive a break up if you feel you can take care of yourself no matter what.

I see how I’ve become. When I was so depressed that I could barely breathe, I’d fly and think about what it would be like to die. I know. It’s not PC to say that in this post-September 11^th world, but I’d have dreams about dying in a plane crash. While wide awake. It was my private, reckless way of saying to the world, “I don’t care if you take me, I don’t care what happens to me.”

I’ll call it my teenage depression because it lasted from 6^th grade through 11^th. It was always there, a lump of old bread in my stomach. Maybe it was a learned behavior from my mom, or maybe it was partly hormones, maybe both. I want to dig through boxes to find my old journals from those times. I’m sure there are some great quotes about wanting to die, morbid things I wrote, and really felt. But everything is already packed up and I don’t want to step barefoot on the garage floor.

I was depressed for six school years, most days surviving, some days clawing at anything that could help me out of the hole I was in, and very few people knew. I made it through alive because I never had the resolve to off myself, even though one of my classmates did, and her grave is next to my grandmother’s grave in Minnesota at a Jewish cemetery. This girl was also Russian, so I guess we had a lot in common. Except she still has an image of Winnie-the-Pooh on her grave stone, the one that’s carved in the shape of a music note, and I’m still alive.

I made it through the day by sleeping three hours after school and six more at night, playing flute in the band, and messing around with boys when I could. The more boys, the better. The more I could pull them along, the healthier I felt. Self esteem problems? Never. Seriously. I wasn’t plagued by such things at that age. I was sick with the disease that made me act like a self-destructive adult at fourteen.

I was also plagued by my mother’s frowning looks and her own depression. The way she and I squared off in the kitchen, one moment hating each other, then standing side by side, cooking at midnight.

My brother’s friend, Marc, would stop by our house some nights when it was very late, and he’d quietly knock on the window of the kitchen, jolting my mother and me out of our walking insomnia and shared depressed eyelids, sticky from sweat, cooking oil, and sadness. He’d sit with us at the table and eat dinner at two in the morning some nights.

I dated a guy for years who was controlling and very jealous. Marc came by one night, and I had to tell him that he wasn’t welcome to visit me anymore, that the guy I was with didn’t allow it. He’d get mad at me, and I’d have to deal with his anger. Marc’s reply: “The Marina I know wouldn’t let a guy do this to her.”

He was right, but I didn’t listen until much later. I’d make crepes with my mom and fill them with sweet apples and cinnamon. I’d rake leaves in the back yard during my weekends home from college, and I’d quietly hide the controlling boyfriend’s effect on me—the side effect that comes from knowing you can fall in love with abuse—the feeling that you could get through anything, if you were just strong enough, if you weren’t so weak.

Raking leaves into little piles, filling a first aid glove with dead leaves, I’d make turkey heads and run around my parents’ yard. Those Indian summer afternoons. One such day brought me the news of my cousin’s suicide, and my dad’s way of delivering the information: “Irit is no longer.” Of course, it sounds different in Russian, but the gist is the same, and my mother snapped at him, “Tell her the truth! She is old enough to know. She’s in college for god’s sake.” So dad says, “She killed herself. With a gun.” And then mom told me to put down the damn turkey head, and what was wrong with me, couldn’t I feel grief like a normal person? Why was I so juvenile? But I couldn’t at the time. I was busy grieving for me. “People deal with grief differently, mom,” was all I could say. And I hated her for a while for not approving of the way I felt sad.

When I finally awoke from my rotting state, I eventually stopped cursing the world around me. I don’t remember when my desire to live resurfaced, but I knew one day, as I sat strapped into a plane seat that I didn’t want to die. So I started making all kinds of deals with god, “Please let me make it through this landing. I promise I’ll be better towards my parents. I won’t be so selfish anymore. I just want to land safely.”

I made it through without medication, or counseling. My general physician once did an exam and said to me, “I’m not sure why you’re so sleepy. Your iron levels are normal, so it’s no anemia. All other tests are coming out fine. Unless…” She trailed off, and then continued, “Unless you’re depressed and you aren’t telling me. Of course, there’s no way that I’d know if you’re good at hiding it.” I sat silent, mortified, wanting to curse the day I’d referred my mother to my doctor. This woman was treating my mother for heavy depression, so no doubt she knew my family history. I guess she could see that I wasn’t fully well, but there wasn’t much she could do for me unless I requested treatment, and I swear, the room was so uncomfortable because the word “depression” had farted its way into our faces. So I went untreated, and I survived.

That survival is a story for another day, but I saw how I’d become—I had finally started caring about my life, and I desperately clung to every missed opportunity, every chance I’d given up for happiness. I began to regret the self destructive things I’d done to myself, like being friends with a girl named Kari in high school who said I embarrassed her when we hung out with guys, how my shirt wasn’t low-cut enough, how I had to stop being so weird. I regretted that I never tried out for a play, or sang in the choir, or took writing seriously. How I doubted myself every time I’d raised my hand, how I didn’t kiss the popular boy I had a crush on and got to go home with after school to work on a home movie English project. I regretted wasting time. I cared, all of a sudden, and that change surprised me to my core, because the very mournful friend I had known for so long had somehow died, and I wasn’t grieving for her.

I’m back in DC, or Maryland, I should say. San Francisco was wonderful, as it always is, and I feel like it’s home.

Home.

What the fuck?

Why is it so hard to just find a place, slap a few things on the walls, get some friends to help lug your freaking oversized couch up the narrow stairwell, and really feel at home? Well, first off, I haven’t found too many friends in DC that would help lug a couch up some stairs. Second, I couldn’t afford an oversized couch when I first got here, and I now know better than to make that kind of an investment in this city. Third, home is about something intangible.

Like how happy I get when I sniff a heavily boy smell saturated t-shirt, my boy’s smell. Or when he puts me in a femi headlock and shoves my nose into his armpit, further emphasizing his masculine prowess as he whispers to me, “This is where your home is.”

And all of my insides melt like salami on a frying pan. My stomach flips, my throat prepares to say something, but all that I can do is laugh hysterically and hold him tightly and breathe in his armpit smell.

Bread, butter, tea, Russian salami.

Cool, San Francisco morning air.

Silent kitchen, two people at the table,

The whole day ahead to lazy it up.

I'm in San Francisco for the weekend. It's heaven here, and I don't want to go back to DC. The days involve long walks through pretty neighborhoods, where I explore cafes, which serve buttery croissants, and organc ice cream shops that serve flavors like "Honey Hill Mint Lavender". In between each mini adventure, I go back to my boyfriend's house and we take afternoon and evening naps, interspersed with movies on laptops and the kind of lovemaking that makes me feel like the entire state of California is on top of me, wrapping me up from the inside out with sunshine, coastline and sweet necatrines.

Yesterday morning we went to the farmer's market at the Ferry Building on Embarcadero. We bought some odds and ends, came home, cooked a late lunch, and before I knew it, it was 9 o'clock, and time to meet up with my cousin. She's great, and I love spending time with her.

More later on this adventure. Today, we're going to the Richmond District in search of the classic Russian store. We're hoping to find the great salami and smoked fish that I'm used to, and also a napoleon cake, filled with cream and layered with puff pastry dough.

I now keep a private journal of the classic variety. It’s a bunch of blank, unlined pages, bound with a black cover. I write everything in it—stuff I don’t even want to admit to myself.

Last weekend, I flew to attend two weddings in California, and when I returned, I couldn’t find my journal. I thought at first that I left it at the hotel I stayed at in San Diego. I started thinking of what the hotel staff must have thought of me when they, no doubt, read through each page on their breaks. Sandwich crumbs and soda can rings, my jealous thoughts and needy wining. I thought of my journal in the lost and found bin among keys, wet swimming suits, lonely socks. I was embarrassed. I felt like the real me was out there, being passed from hand to hand, being laughed at in groups, but privately, these people would go home and really understand me because they would feel the same way about most things as I do.

I ransacked my parents’ house to find it (I live there again). And when I did find it, it was hidden in my suitcase, where I left it, between two zippered pieces of luggage.

Lots of things have happened since I last posted, and I’ll try to start writing on here again because I miss it. But I have to find a balance between what I write in my private journal and what’s honest enough to be written on here.

A quick update on my life is that my best friend is getting married next year. I’m her maid of honor, and I’m thrilled that she’s marrying such a sweet, loveable and caring guy. They’re perfect together. Over the years they’ve started to look more like each other, which is actually the sign of a perfect match. Soon, I will buy them matching windbreakers and wheely bags. Then, the transformation will be complete. My best friend hates this image, but I think it’s the epitome of unity.

(Aside: I feel like I abuse commas. Comments, anyone?)

***

On my walk from the metro to work, there is a stench that is so gruesome, I wonder if perhaps someone died in one of the garages and then a maintenance worker boarded up their body in the garage. It’s like this decomposing body is a mass of greenish velvet of rot, or the remnants of a kaleidoscope of maggot-infested salad beans. I am not the only one who feels this way. Now, a group of us is rethinking our morning route, and we’re considering walking a block out of our way to avoid the stench. I am concerned that perhaps something organic did actually die under Union Station, and it really is melting in the August heat. My God, that smell could kill an innocent bystander.

***

My brother is also getting married. My family, myself included, couldn’t be happier. He’s with a great girl from Prague, and they’ll most likely have tiny children with very heavy heads and soft ears. As slightly older kids, they will be beautiful and will have genius-style brain sponges, and I will love to have them over for varying degrees of spoiling sessions. I’ll feed them banana bread and we’ll do sissy art projects involving elbow macaroni and glitter. Then, they’ll look up at me with saint-like eyes, barely able to contain their huge, brown, marble eyeballs in their huge heads, and they’ll say, “Aunt Marina, really?” The same way that I say, “Really?” when a Northwest Airlines representative tells me there’s nothing he can do for me; the flight is cancelled until three days from now and no, they can’t put me up in a hotel or give me free vouchers, that I have to call the customer service helpline 24 hours from the cancellation of my flight to redeem my 1,000 miles of allotted freakin’ flyer compensation. (freakin’ flyer=frequent flyer, same thing)

Then, these kids will open my fridge in search of a carton of milk, the kind that opens up at the top and is a single serving, and instead, they’ll pull out a tiny universe, between the size of a grain of sand and a Cheerio, and they’ll say something prophetic in unison. Something like, “Don’t worry, Aunt Marina, the dream you had last night is contained in this grain of sand.” And I’ll pry the little boy’s sticky fingers apart to, indeed, reveal a sparkling, gemlike universe, covered in doughy banana crumbs. And then, I’ll eat it.

When their parents come by to pick them up, the kids will say they had a good time, and that they’d like to come back soon.

***

I’m still very much in love. I know because when I think about lying in bed with this person, or walking to a park in San Francisco on a Saturday afternoon, I don’t want to be anywhere else. I’m a little concerned that we don’t fight. I thought that fighting was normal, and I wonder if one day, we’ll have a fight, and not be ready for it. But the fight will probably be in whispers, while I’m cradling his head in my lap or squishing his face between my hands, so that we forget about the fight for the moment and make love instead.

I swear I'm still alive. And everything is fine. Lots of family is in town, work is busy, trip next week.

=

No time to write in a quiet environment. 

[Author's note: This is a mixture between fiction and ideals, between reality and dreams, between satire and embarrassing truisms. Do not interpret this in the context of my life.] 

“My son, the battle inside each of us is between two wolves. One is evil. It is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego.

The other is good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Dear ____,

I want to get married and have two kids. I don’t really care if both are girls, but I’d like to have at least one girl. I also want to buy a house with a yard, so that I could plant lilac bushes and a variety of roses. I’d do the yard work myself, even the mowing. Preferably, the house will be in a nice neighborhood, and the other kids on the block will play with my kids. I’ll serve their moms lemonade on the front porch, while we talk about how hard it is to juggle everything, and how nice it is to have neighbors who are so close to each other. I’ll watch the school bus come by in the afternoons, and I’ll look forward to the day that my kids start school. I’ll live in a great school district.

I want to stay at home with my first child until I’m done breastfeeding and then I’ll think about returning to work full-time. Most likely, given the type of house I want to own, and the financial flexibility I want to have, I’ll need to return to full-time work after about two years. I’d work for another three years, and then try for my second child. So, it looks like the timeline goes as follows: I get engaged at 25, married at 26, buy a house at 27, have my first child at 29, and my second child at 32. I’d return to the workforce full-time at 33 again, and work for the next 27 years until I’m 60. If I’ve calculated the amount of money I’ll need at retirement correctly, I might even be able to retire a few years earlier.

If you are my fiancé, the groom at my wedding, the co-signer on the mortgage, the father of my children, and fellow RV-operator, you will be 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, and 58 respectively when each of these things happen.

You’ll have to do some planning, but I think you’ll be able to join me on this grand adventure. At 23, you’ll be in your first year of the graduate program you’ve chosen. It’ll be a tight squeeze for you financially because you’ll have student loans, and you won’t be able to work full-time.

If you’ll be proposing with an engagement ring, you should ask your mom and dad if there are any family heirlooms that you can have for this purpose. It will not cost you anything, and I’ll appreciate the meaning behind it. We can pay for the re-sizing of the band together, and that shouldn’t be too expensive. If you’ll be proposing without a ring, that’s not a problem for me. I’ll love you anyway. The proposal doesn’t have to be an elaborate thing either—just talk to me about our future and say that you want me to be in your life forever. That will probably make me cry.

Forever is a long time, considering you’ll only be 23 at this point, but I once read that a man knows within the first few moments of meeting a woman whether or not he’s willing to have his life turned completely upside-down for her. And marriage can certainly do that to your life, but you’ll be ready for this.

At 24, you’ll be completing your masters program, and you’ll be working with various choirs. You might be working at a high school, or even a junior high. Maybe you’ll be conducting the after school musical, but that’s up to you. If you’re thinking of doing it for the extra money, that would certainly help us, but if you’ll feel overwhelmed by the extra workload, then you shouldn’t exert that kind of pressure on yourself. We’ll find a way to get by just fine. Don’t take odd jobs to compromise your talent—and I believe you have great talent.

You’ll also be composing at home in our apartment in the evenings, while I’m in the next room, writing my novel. We’ll cook dinner together most nights, but sometimes, we’ll order Chinese food or pizza. We’ll be very happy together, and we’ll take turns introducing each other as, “My fiancé.” Sometimes, we’ll laugh at how silly we are because we can’t stop saying the word “fiancé” in ridiculous, French accents.

That summer, you’ll have a flexible schedule, so you’ll be able to set aside two weeks for our wedding and honeymoon. I don’t think it’ll be a very big wedding, but then again, you have a very large family. I know that there are family politics about who gets a wedding invitation, and I don’t really mind if you invite people I’ve never met. I understand how difficult it can be to appease everyone at the same time.

I don’t particularly like the showiness of a big celebration. Maybe we’ll have an intimate ceremony in front of our families on the east coast. Or maybe we could do a destination wedding, and have our friends and family join us for the honeymoon. It doesn’t need to be fancy, as long as you’re there and everybody is happy. If you’d like to help plan the details, I’d be happy to have your help. You could pick the band and what songs you’d like to have playing as I walk down the isle and as we walk back together, as husband and wife. If you’d like your mom to help plan the wedding in your place, I’d be happy to work side by side with her. She’s a fun lady, and she brings me comfort, like you do.

After we get married, you can decide if you want to pursue a PhD program and what school you’d like to go to. I’ll come with you and support you emotionally, of course, and financially as well. If you choose a big city, we can rent for a while longer, or maybe buy a condominium at some point. Instead of a yard, I’ll just grow flowers and herbs in windowsill pots. If you choose a smaller town, I’ll be happy with that, because we could buy a house then. You’ll be 25, with about $25,000 of debt. I’ll be 27, and I won’t have any debt. That’s just how our situations will have played out, and I won’t blame you for the added responsibility that I will have of paying off your student loans. I’ll be happy for you that you were able to pursue your passion.

Anyway, I’ll have saved enough cash to have a down payment on a house, and probably have enough left over to furnish the rooms. The house will be on a nice street, and we’ll have the good neighbors that I’ve already described.

I’ll start a part-time MBA program that year, at age 27, while working full-time at a fulfilling job. Wouldn’t it be great if we went to the same school? We will, in fact. You’ll have a brilliant advisor, and you’ll have many responsibilities. But you’ll be happy with the quality of music you’re writing. I’ll have long hours at work, and weekends packed with homework and group projects, but I’ll feel like I’m getting a good education.

Time will fly by, and two years into your PhD program, I’ll tell you that I’m pregnant. It won’t be a huge surprise, because we will have been trying for a few months already. By the time I give birth to our first child, I will have graduated already from my MBA program, so I won’t have to worry about school anymore. My job will be flexible, and I’ll have six months of guaranteed leave, but only 12 weeks will be paid leave. Don’t worry, we’ll manage just fine. I’ve planned ahead.

It’s a good thing that our mortgage payments won’t be very high. We won’t have many other major expenses. For example, we’ll have a car, but we’ll use it only occasionally. You’ll bike to class, office hours, music lessons, and we’ll live close to a park and a community swimming pool. Our savings will supplement the money you’ll be earning as a choir conductor at a church, and the private piano lessons you’ll be giving to kids and adults at the University. We won’t go out to eat often. Instead, we’ll cook at home together like we always have.

We’ll tell the doctor not to reveal the gender of the baby, and we’ll paint the nursery in gender-neutral colors: yellow and green. The toys will be animals, mostly. Lots of frogs and teddy bears. I won’t mind hand-me-down toys and clothes, as long as they’re properly sanitized, although people make too much of germs, I think. We won’t have hand-sanitizer in the nursery, for example, and we won’t need to have anti-bacterial hand soap in the bathrooms. You know what else we’ll have in the bathroom? Teri-cloth hand towels and wash clothes. I love that material. It’ll be a gift that we get for our wedding. I suppose we can decide the gift registry later, even though you’ll probably just say, “Anything you want is fine with me.” It’s true that the money situation will be very tight after we have our baby, but we’ll be happy to have our child, and the entire family will be very happy for us.

They’ll help us in any way they can. They’ll visit often, and both sets of grandparents will drive one weekend every month to stay with us for four days. Of course, if any of the grandparents want to stay for an extended visit, they’ll be more than welcome to. They’ll get along with each other, and they’ll understand the boundaries that we’ll set up implicitly. They’ll simply understand, because they remember what it was like to be our age, even though they had very different lives.

We’ll have a small guest room next to our bedroom. I’ll cut fresh flowers from our garden every morning and place them in the guest room. During the winter, I’ll serve hot cocoa in the kitchen and put mints on the pillows for turndown service. Everybody will love that extra touch, and it’ll make me happy to see others happy.

I’ll enjoy having our parents’ company during the day, and their help with the baby will be appreciated. You’ll be able to spend time with us during the evenings and weekends, although on Sunday mornings, you’ll have to get to church early so that you can warm up the choir. This part will always make us laugh because we’re Jewish, and you’ll go to church more regularly than a Christian person. But we’ll understand that that job is only temporary. Once we move to a bigger city, there will be synagogues for you to work at, and we’ll join our favorite one. I’ll join the book club, and the women’s band, so I’ll be able to keep playing the flute.

When you’re 30, you’ll be completing your PhD and we’ll be making our decision about where to move next. Maybe we’ll move back to where our parents live, or we’ll move to another city, but we’ll be very happy with the decision in either case. After we sell our house, we’ll be able to buy a slightly bigger house. We’ll want to have a third bedroom for our next baby. As we’re looking for our home, I’ll ask the realtor to give us a moment to talk about the property, and that’s when I’ll tell you that we’ll be having another child. I will have just found out that morning. And this time, you will be surprised, because you didn’t think it would happen that quickly. You’ll be thrilled, and I will be too.

I know that I’m leaving out a lot of the details in this timeline, but don’t you think it’s better not to plan everything? Life does have a way of ebbing and flowing on its own, and it’s nice to think that we have some control over it, but something tells me we don’t. Over the next few months, I hope you’ll consider your role in the rest of my life. Think about what our lives will look like for the next 35 years. Several pages of a typed letter can really hold a lot of information, although not all of it, but I hope that this letter helps to ease some of my your concerns.

Love,

Marina

Dear _____,

I sent you the last letter because I wanted to speak to you about our future as if I knew what would happen in our lives. And I don’t know if you interpreted it that way. You must have been frightened by what you read, and I don’t think you would’ve called even if you had my number. It was probably too soon to send you something like that, since we don’t really know each other that well. I wondered if maybe I could be completely honest with you, just to see what you’d say. I was hoping you’d say that what I wrote touched you somehow. I was hoping you’d show up at my door with that heirloom ring and ask me to marry you right on my front step.

I’ve been thinking lately that I don’t know if I believe in people. I don’t know if I like the idea of being with one person for the rest of my life. You’d be that person, if I believed in you.

I hear the loving things you say to me. I thank you each time you open the door for me. I reach for you at night, placing my hand between your thighs because I like the warmth of what I find there. My hand curls around your penis and I fall asleep again.

I hear you say, “I’m a lucky man.” You tell me that you think I’m beautiful almost every day, and I know that you’re not counting, not keeping tabs. If I needed anything, you’d find a way to get it for me. I know that’s love.

But what of everything else? How do I know that these plans will ever come to fruition, and how do I know that planning my life doesn’t guarantee some great doom?

Even as I write this, I want to believe. I crave walking down the isles with you, the isles of Target and Crate & Barrel. I want to feel legitimate next to you, picking out dinner plates and flatware, napkins and wine glasses.

Legitimacy. How could it be that our society has been divided into such black and white halves—the haves and the wants, the lucky ones and the disposed-of. How easy it is to be either one, and most are both at various points in their lives. I see how women turn from lost to found, from waywardness to innate purpose. We have the capacity to take care of ourselves, I know, but it seems so much easier to care for others first, and only then, to feel content with our own place in the context of them.

Who are they? They are the lucky ones who cross our paths at the right place, at the right time. The ones who hear family members say to them, after meeting us for the first time, “Don’t let this one go. She’s a good one.” And they get that warmth in the very pits of their stomachs, that knowing warmth. If we are lucky, the timing is right. They’ll be ready to receive us, to make room for us in their lives, to even love us very deeply.

Most men know within the first few weeks of meeting someone whether or not they are willing to have their lives turned completely upside down for this new person. I didn’t invent that line. I don’t know who did, but it must be true because I don’t think there’s an original source for the quote, it just simply is.

There are so many variations to this story, but the basics have to be there in order for anything to happen. Both parties must have had some rough times in their pasts. I don’t like to call it baggage, the weight they carry on their shoulders that guides them in their decisions, but I don’t know what other name to give it, other than perhaps personal history or wisdom. I don’t think it gets any easier each time a new type of hurt envelopes us. Some are rescued in the arms or legitimacy at the right moment, just before her head hits the pavement. Some are lost forever to the wanting, the self destructive lust that comes from shiny packages and glossy finishes.

The truth is that the words “shiny” and “glossy” are meant to be said in a sneering way, snidely, better-than-you, but try as you might, you can’t say it meanly enough because you want those things. Matching dining table and chairs, placemats for six because you love to entertain.

I love the feeling of getting off a bus after work, and the stress of the day is slowly melting off because I’m reading a novel that I really enjoy, perhaps the last third of The World According to Garp, by John Irving. In the back of my mind, as I turn each page, I know that I’m coming home to you, and I can feel the smile on my face growing. You aren’t making dinner in an apron, or anything cliché like that. You’re probably rubbing your head, or twirling a pencil between your fingers, thinking of a new melody at the beautiful piano in our living room.

I wouldn’t even care if you were sitting on the couch, drinking a fancy Belgian Ale in your pajama pants, which you’ve worn all day. I’d walk in through the door, noticing how hot the apartment was, thinking why you hadn’t opened a window, but I won’t do anything but drop my purse by the door and come to you. I don’t know how exactly I’d touch you first, if I’d kneel before you and kiss your neck, parking my face in that perfect spot above your collar bone, breathing into your skin and inhaling it at the same time. I’d love that you’d smell like bedtime and it would only be six-thirty in the evening. Nothing would be on the stove, the sun would slowly be dimming and we’d sit in the mostly dark living room, holding each other for a few moments. Before I’d notice, it would be eight o’clock.

I know I intended this letter to be an explanation of the modern definition of legitimacy, but the only legitimate explanation for how I envision my future, how my real desires transcend the imaginary realm, is to say that because I love you, I want these things. I live imagining my reality, and it’s so entirely possible.

Maybe I am limited in my capacity to love in non-conforming ways, but God, how good it feels to conform to you—to let my body give in to yours. You exhale, and as I inhale, my stomach fills in the curve. You lay on top of me for ten more counts, and then we shift so that our legs become like woven Challah, the down comforter like butter on bread fresh out of the oven. How beautiful it is to give into your body, your desires, your needs. How beautiful it is to love you and to come home to you.

Yours always,

Marina

Dear _____,

If enough time goes by, I can see myself regretting these things I’ve written. That is why I’m mailing them right away, so that I don’t have time to feel as though I’m mistaken. Mistaken in these innate desires, could that even be? That’s why I haven’t written a return address—I don’t want you to come looking for me. I want you to understand though, that you probably already know me. Or maybe you met me a long time ago and just haven’t thought of me in a long time. In any case, I’m not that different from when you first knew me, but maybe you just didn’t know me completely then, so you’d be surprised by who I’ve become. Maybe you’re just very different now, so you finally see me the way I was meant to be seen.

I think I’m not so different from other women. Except maybe women who have been hurt enough that they no longer wish these things I’ve described. Really, there are women like that. My grandmother was like that. After two husbands and a medical career, I think she was mostly content helping people in her life, and raising her own daughter, as well as adopted children and their families.

She’d mend my ankle when I twisted it, she’d disinfect my bleeding knee when I fell off my bike, she’d feed me, anytime, hungry or not.

Before my Baba, my grandma, passed away, she pulled her daughter towards her and said in Russian, "You have to live life gracefully." Her brain tumor had been making her say strange things, sometimes inappropriate things to relatives and friends. She once started swearing like a sailor when one relative walked into her hospital room to see her. Baba said, "I never liked you anyway."

And when another relative walked in, Baba said, "I luff you, my sunshine," with her heavy Russian accent, and she stretched her big arms out for a hug. Her words were random, I wanted to believe. It was the tumor speaking; not her.

I held my breath before I walked in to see her, not knowing what she'd say about me. That's how I've always been. Sensitive. Deeply concerned with what people think of me. And she reached her arms out towards me and said, "Come here, crasavitza, beautiful girl." And I collapsed into her, relieved that she didn't think badly of me, that she'd liked me all along, truly loved me even.

And so the debate within me was settled. I believed the tumor was like a truth serum that had somehow gotten into her brain. It's not that she was ever a woman to hold back what she really thought, but I took those words and that moment as proof that indeed, she really did love me, all walls broken down, hospital gown, IVs and food trays. She loved me, and wasn't afraid to say so. And that meant a lot to me. Because there she was, dignity sort of stripped down, hair unwashed, big scar and red stitches across the side of her head from where they had to perform brain surgery to remove the tumor, and there she was telling people that she loved them, hugging them, telling them they were beautiful. I thought those acts in themselves were painfully beautiful. Graceful, even. And she was.

But I know that grace came with a price, and so I write to you now, please see me in my old age. Notice how my face has changed, sun spots, loose skin, droopy earlobes, gray hair and flabby arms. My eyes haven’t changed though. They still crave the way your old body bends and shakes when you laugh. My finger tips still feel enough to graze your back when you’re sleeping, as I reach across the bed to place my palm on your shoulder just to feel your warmth. Please remember me and discover me, lose me and forget me at the same time, before it’s too late.

Love,

Marina

I like how my bed smells like you. You’re out there, somewhere. It’s 7:30 PM and I think other people are eating dinner with their families, and those that don’t have families and are very much alone are somewhere else entirely—bars, streets, crouched in corners.

There are so many homeless people in DC, and so many hungry people. Others are neither, but they sit on the front steps to their buildings, tank tops over dark, wet skin. Necks crane as the one white girl passes through their neighborhood, nods, “Hello, how are you,” bikers on sidewalks speeding by, sticky kids screaming, teenagers hanging around street corners checking each other out.

I like the sense of must and the feeling that responsibility gives me. It’s a sense of purpose, because for me, that’s what keeps me from being one of the people on the street. I like to walk and think about what my future holds. It’s not some sort of set-in-stone road map. It’s a dream, a long dream that starts and stops as I run my errands, stop at CVS to buy shampoo, soap, smell the soap, buy the bottle on sale, will I have children? Do I have my CVS discount card? I can’t separate these thoughts from my daily life because my sense of purpose is very much connected to what I want in the future. I survive today, and I come home today, instead of hanging around on street corners or bars because I have an understanding of what today is for. It’s for tomorrow.

Sure, today is fine for its own sake. But how much time is left? I know, dramatic and trite, really the stuff that juvenile essays are made of. Maybe.

There’s no real difference between being homeless and being lonely. Transience takes many forms. How sad it is to be alone.

I’ve never been happier, and I’ve never been more afraid of losing what I have found. If I don’t fight for what I want, then no one will just come and hand it to me.

Seven layer dip: green chili peppers, black olives, mild salsa, chopped lettuce, shredded cheddar cheese, softened cream cheese, taco seasoning mix, refried beans, one medium tomato. Serve with chips. Delicious. Don’t have too much or you won’t fit into that dress. Strapless dress, three weddings coming up, swimming suit season, okay, you can have just three chips. Pick around the part with the cheese on it.

Twenty minutes later, half the dish is gone and I’ve given up on the chips. They keep breaking, and I have salty fingers and corn crumbs all over. I’ve moved on to eating the dip with a spoon. Beans. Beans are healthy, right? It was either this or eating the Coco Pebbles, but the milk was bad.

I wonder what the recipe is for suburban living and why every home has the same set of chairs in the kitchen breakfast nook—those wooden, highly sturdy farm chairs that never quite match the table. They’re made to be that height so that when kids sit on them, they can exercise the full force of their hamstrings, swinging wildly under the table, ample room to kick siblings. Wind-up and all. They eat Coco Pebbles too, but in that context, chocolate cereal doesn’t seem sad, and milk never goes sour. Bowls made of fax-porcelain, when they fall in the sink they make a very light clinking sound that reminds me of a toddler’s high chair, the way things sound when they’re dropped from that height.

I could do these things on my own, I could do this all by myself, yet it seems grotesque unless it’s in the right setting. What would I do with a breakfast nook? A mismatched table and chairs? The milk in my fridge would always go sour anyway, even the quart containers, because it would still be just me. And the ants would get into the cereal box before I could finish a second bowl. When my place is messy, it’s sad. When a family’s house is messy, it’s somehow right. Even when it’s messy, everything is as it should be.

I think there isn’t enough room in this world for single living—it can actually be cheaper for me to go out to eat for every meal than to cook for myself. It’s cheaper because having to throw out the leftovers costs me too much emotionally. I hate wasting food, but cooking for one and saving the leftovers is grotesque again. I actually feel like I’m taunting myself. And happy hours with hot wings and half price ciders is like a field trip for the lonelies, even those who are with someone.

I’m not sure what everyone else is doing right now—my neighbors, my family, you. You’re probably at that place you were heading tonight, going about your business, and I know that I’ll see you later tonight. And only then will I feel like things are in their right place, when you lay down next to me, into that spot on my bed that already smells like you.

I have two halves, the one that wants that breakfast nook legitimately, the one that can add something to a conversation about how Target brand diapers are really good quality, and then roll my eyes at how idiotic it is that baby formula costs so much. I’d love to go one step beyond and be one of those parents that never talks about these things, the kind of mom that slings her baby over her shoulder in a hammock-like cloth and takes a long walk through the park, pockets loaded with granola and baby wipes. I would love to be that woman who does it all, and you know she’s happy because she treats those in her life with the utmost respect and admiration, like when she looks at her husband, everyone around her knows that she’s in love. That’s not so bad, is it? It’s not too much to want.

I haven’t been happier since I was a child myself. I remember standing at the side of the road on Christmas Eve, freezing and loving it, holding a candle for the one car every ten minutes, even though I’m not Christian. I was so happy that others were happy that night, probably driving with their families to church, that I wanted to let them know that I knew. That butterfly stomach giddiness that kids feel before they go on a flight, or before they open their birthday presents. I was happy then, and I’m even happier now.

I’m slowly unwrapping my future, and I have to remember to take it one day at a time. Even the little things that I do and feel are legitimate, regardless of the times I hear people say to me, “Well, your body bounces back much faster if you have kids when you’re young.”

Feist says it all:

Helping the kids out of their coats
Oh wait the babies haven't been born oh
Unpacking the bags and setting up
And planting lilacs and buttercups oh
But in the meantime we've got it hard
Second floor living without a yard
It may be years until the day
My dreams will match up with my pay
Old dirt road,
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
knee deep snow
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
Watching the fire as we grow
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
o-o-o-o-old
I got a man to stick it out
And make a home from a rented house oh
And we'll collect the moments one by one
I guess that's how the future's done oh
How many acres, how much light
Tucked in the woods and out of sight
Talk to the neighbours and tip my cap
On a little road barely on the map
Old dirt road,
mushaboom, mushaboom)
knee deep snow
mushaboom, mushaboom)
Watching the fire as we grow,
mushaboom, mushaboom)
o-o-o-o-old
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
Old dirt road rambling rose
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
Watching the fire as we grow
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
Well I'm Sold...